Ancelotti lulled my Reds into his ‘rope-a-dope’ defensive masterclass

“URGH!”. That’s all I could really say when a familiar feeling washed over me on Saturday night, as Real Madrid beat my beloved Liverpool to win the Champions League... again.

I remember being crestfallen after the 2018 final because I honestly felt Real were there for the taking and, had it not been for two huge, self-inflicted errors, it could have been so different. But after this final, I just felt flat.

Liverpool (my kids in their Reds kits, top right) were supposed to be the younger, faster, more dynamic, pressing team, whose bombastic attack would overawe Madrid’s midfield three of Luka Modric, Toni Kroos and Casemiro – who have an average age of 33.

But instead, Real put on a defensive masterclass, with the kind of self-assuredness that only comes from the experience of winning each of the four other Champions League finals they had been in since 2014.

It felt like a Muhammad Ali rope-a-dope, as Carlo Ancelotti sent his team out to defend so deep they negated Liverpool’s pacy and skilful front three, by leaving zero space for them to run into.

Madrid simply allowed Liverpool to hold possession in front of their box, with the intention to counterattack when they could, via the long ball. The best evaluation of the game, though, is probably done not by analysing what we did see, but by analysing what we didn’t see.

We didn’t see the Reds’ creative maestro, Thiago, have the option to play a slick pass to turn the Madrid defensive line on their heels.

We didn’t see the crosses from Liverpool’s full-backs threaten (Andy Robertson looking forlorn, top).

Any shallow crosses were negated by Madrid’s depth, and any that landed near the penalty spot, were swiftly swept up by their 6ft7in goalkeeper, Thibaut Courtois.

And speaking of Courtois, although he made a number of good saves, did Liverpool ever have what you would call a clear-cut chance – the type where you would say, ‘He should have scored that’? Not for me.

At the other end, we didn’t see Liverpool’s best defender, Virgil van Dijk, all game.

Real Madrid didn’t even attempt to test him. Instead, when they broke, they attacked the wings and kept their crosses low to the ground.

Finally, and most disappointingly for me, we didn’t see a frantic last 10 minutes where Jurgen Klopp’s men unleashed hell in the search for an equaliser.

Madrid never seemed to be scrambling. There was no desperate dribbling to the corners or smashing the ball long as they frantically looked for a defensive reprieve – there wasn’t even any timewasting really.

It felt underwhelming. My voice wasn’t even hoarse because there wasn’t anything to scream about.

It was as though Liverpool had been lulled into Real’s trap and, despite us having more possession and six times more shots, I didn’t begrudge Real the win.

And it certainly didn’t feel as though they were there for the taking.

I looked at Ancelotti’s all-conquering side and thought, ‘Wow, you really are just serial winners who get the job done – fair play and congratulations’.